There was no time to think about it. Thumbs were suddenly seeking for his eyes. He twisted. Those parts of the body that were soft and tender, and that, in fair sport, would be avoided, must now be protected at all costs; his opponent was willing to tear, rip and gouge. And Damen’s body, otherwise hard and smooth, was newly vulnerable where it was bruised. The man he fought knew it. The pounding blows Damen suffered were all brutally aimed to land on old hurts. His opponent was vicious and formidable, and he had been instructed to do damage.
Despite all this, the first advantage was Damen’s. Outweighed and fighting that strange dizziness, skill still counted for something. He gained a hold on the man, but when he tried to call on his strength to finish things, he found instead unsteady weakness. The air was suddenly expelled from his lungs after a driving blow to his diaphragm. The man had broken his hold.
He found new leverage. He bore down with all his weight on the man’s body and felt him shudder. It took more out of him than it should have. The man’s muscles bunched under him, and this time when the hold was broken Damen felt a burst of pain in his shoulder. He heard his breath go uneven.
Something was wrong. The weakness he felt was not natural. As another wave of dizziness passed over him, he thought suddenly of the over-sweet smell in the baths . . . the incense in the brazier . . . a drug, he realised as his breath heaved. He had inhaled some sort of drug. Not just inhaled, had stewed in it. Nothing had been left to chance. Laurent had acted to make the outcome of this fight certain.
A sudden renewed onslaught came and he staggered. It took too long to regain himself. He grappled ineffectually; for a few moments neither man could sustain a grip. Sweat on the man’s body glistened, making purchase more difficult. Damen’s own body had been slightly oiled; the scented slave preparation gave him an ironic, unlooked for advantage, momentarily protecting his virtue. He thought it was not the moment for stricken laughter. He felt the man’s warm breath against his neck.
In the next second he was on his back, pinned, blackness threatening the edge of his vision as the man applied a crushing pressure against his windpipe, above the gold collar. He felt the push of the man against him. The sound of the crowd surged. The man was trying to mount.
Thrusting against Damen, his breath now coming in soft grunts. Damen struggled to no avail, not strong enough to break this hold. His thighs were forced apart. No. He sought desperately for some weakness that could be exploited, and found none.
Goal in his sights, the man’s attention split between restraint and penetration.
Damen flung the last of his strength at the hold, and felt it quaver—enough to shift their positions slightly—enough to find leverage—an arm freed—
He drove his fist sideways, so that the heavy gold cuff on his wrist slammed hard into the man’s temple, with the sick sound of an iron bar impacting on flesh and bone. A moment later, Damen followed up, perhaps unnecessarily, with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt.
He fell, heavy flesh collapsing, partially across Damen.
Damen somehow pushed away, instinctively inserting distance between himself and the prone man. He coughed, his throat tender. When he found that he had air, he began the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. Rape was out of the question. The little spectacle with the blond pet had been all performance. Even these jaded courtiers did not expect him to fuck a man who was unconscious.
Except that he could feel, now, the displeasure of the crowd. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. The words of Councillor Guion came back to him, almost crazily. It’s in poor taste.
It was not over. It was not enough to fight through a drug haze and win. There was no way to win. It was already clear that the Regent’s diktats did not extend to the entertainments in the ring. And whatever now happened to Damen would happen with the crowd’s approbation.
He knew what he had to do. Against every rebelling instinct, he forced himself forward, and dropped to his knees before Laurent.
‘I fight in your service, Your Highness.’ He searched his memory for Radel’s words, and found them. ‘I exist only to please my Prince. May my victory reflect on your glory.’
He knew better than to look up. He spoke as clearly as he could, his words for the onlookers as much as they were for Laurent. He tried to look as deferential as possible. Exhausted and on his knees, he thought that wasn’t difficult. If someone hit him right now, he’d fall over.
Laurent extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen.
‘Kiss it,’ Laurent said.
Damen’s whole body reacted against that idea. His stomach heaved; his heart, in the cage of his chest, was pounding. One public humiliation substituted for another. But it was easier to kiss a foot than be raped in front of a crowd . . . wasn’t it? Damen bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather. He forced himself to do it with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. He kissed just the curve of the toe tip. In Akielos an eager slave might have continued upward, kissing the arch of Laurent’s foot, or, if they were daring, higher, his firm calf muscle.
He heard Councillor Guion: ‘You’ve worked miracles. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship.’
‘Every dog can be brought to heel,’ said Laurent.
‘Magnificent!’ A smooth, cultured voice, one Damen didn’t know.
‘Councillor Audin,’ said Laurent.
Damen recognised the older man he had glimpsed in the audience earlier. The one who had sat with his son, or nephew. His clothing, though it was dark like Laurent’s, was very fine. Not, of course, as fine as a prince’s. But close to it.
‘What a victory! Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him.’
‘A reward.’ Laurent, flatly.
‘A fight like that—truly magnificent—but with no climax—allow me to offer him a pet, in place of his intended conquest. I think,’ said Audin, ‘that we are all eager to see him really perform.’
Damen’s gaze swung around to the pet.
It was not over. Perform, he thought, and felt sick.